


Homecoming

by AnnetheCatDetective



Category: The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, F/M, Hiding Injuries From Onlookers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24205282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: A guilt-ridden Andrew brings Percy home... but the masquerade is far from over, and Marguerite has to deal with just how stubborn her husband is.Luckily for him, she is his match in any arena.
Relationships: Marguerite Blakeney/Percy Blakeney, Percy Blakeney & Andrew Ffoulkes
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/gifts).



> My schedule got messed up and I wound up posting too close to the wire, and so this assignment disappeared for me while I was posting my other, my apologies for any trouble. But this is my official fill for it.

He’s on his feet, when they bring him back to her. If she did not know him so well-- indeed, had it been only some few months ago-- she might not have realized on seeing him, how bad it was. But the smile he means to reassure her with is tight and drawn, and he is pale. He trembles with each step, he holds too tight to Sir Andrew at one side and Armand at the other. 

“Tell me.” Marguerite steels herself for the worst.

“It was all a great success.” Percy takes her hand, his grip is weak. He kisses her knuckles, and some of the mask slips. “Our friends rest safely.”

“And you?”

“I return to you in time for the ball, as I promised. And all in one piece, my dear. But la! How tiresome of me to talk only of myself, I ought to ask after you. Have you been well here at home?”

“I have been _worried_ , for my _husband_. Sir Andrew, will you help me put this man in his bed?”

“I will, milady, and I’ll fetch someone to patch him up. He will be at your side a good while, but he will recover in fine form.”

“I can take care of him.”

“Milady--”

“Marguerite--”

“I will take care of him.” She repeats, and she allows herself a little pride in the way both men fold beneath her gaze. "Armand, see no one disturbs us?"

"Of course." He kisses her cheek, and takes both Percy and Andrew briefly by the shoulder, exchanging some look, before he hurries to ensure the privacy of the master bedroom, and to see that of the staff, only Percy's man, in on the game as he is, be allowed near any time soon.

As for her husband... they get him to his bed, their bed. They get him undressed, which is more difficult yet. And she sees... she sees. It’s bad, but she is not some weak, simpering girl, to quail at a little blood. She will wash his shirt herself, the blood will all come out. 

With Andrew’s help, they get Percy’s back cleaned and bandaged. He’d been taken prisoner, flogged… he tries to distract her from the sight with the tale of his daring escape, and to his credit he winces but remains lucid, and in good spirits, and does not cry out through any of it. She supposes he is fortunate, though it is hard to look at the state of his poor back and think the word. Andrew had been right, he would heal.

It is only when they have him bandaged that she gets the full story-- when Andrew is shaking so badly she's sure he must be concealing some injury of his own, and instead, the sorry tears begin.

"I went as lightly with it as I could." He says, his hand covering Percy's shoulder, avoiding the nearest welt.

"Had you gone any lighter, it would not have gone so well for us." Percy assures him, grips his arm with what strength he has.

"You!" She cannot help her surprise, though her tone carries no censure.

"Had he not been posing as my jailer, I never could have escaped. His hand was forced. And had he treated me with kid gloves, someone else should have done the job-- and likely accused our friend of holding improper sympathies. Andrew, you would have been in chains beside me, and I should not have liked to see you whipped as well."

"I would rather have taken a hundred lashes myself than do what I have done." He shakes his head, chest heaving with sentiment. "I know we all must do as we must... I know it. But it is not well with me, to have hurt you."

"You are quite forgiven. You did save my life, after all."

Percy had not skimped on the detail when he had told that part-- Andrew carrying him from his cell, disguised as a dead man, how they had been stopped by another guard, how they had met with the others who had smuggled out their target during the excitement of having caught the Pimpernel himself, the cry which went up behind them at their disappearance, the rush to change clothing and to bundle themselves into the coach, how their hearts had been in their throats the whole journey...

"Am I forgiven?" Andrew implores it of Marguerite. She places a hand over the one gripping Percy's shoulder, reassuring him with a smile.

"You have brought him home to me, and pained yourself greatly to do so. There is nothing for me to forgive. Are you yourself injured?"

"No, milady, only an injury of the soul. But I shall mend as he does. If I may make myself useful in any way--"

"I know." She nods. "I shall let you know."

“I shall not be the most graceful dancer at tomorrow night’s ball, I’m afraid.” Percy says, startling her. She'd nearly forgotten... And how can he possibly think of going now?

“You shall stay in bed and rest. Armand shall escort me.”

“Please.” He captures her hand, and in spite of everything… in spite of everything, her heart flutters, at the way they fit to each other as if sculpted to. “You know not the strength it has given me, in my hour of torment, to think of fulfilling my promise. To think of you, the jewel of society, all eyes upon you at my side, to think of your laugh, and your hand upon my arm… to think of taking just one clumsy turn about the floor with you. My dear…”

“Will it not tax you too terribly? It is tomorrow night-- you have hardly had any time to heal.”

“You shall provide me with all the strength I require.”

“I will be there also.” Andrew says, his voice soft. “If the evening grows too long, I shall make some excuse for stealing your husband, and leave Armand with you. We won’t let him suffer unduly-- but a man’s spirit needs healing as much as his body. I do believe it would do him good, if his mind is so set upon it.”

“In truth, I would sooner stay home than leave and go to any party without him, now.” She admits. “Percy… you must swear to be honest with me. If you are in too much pain, our friends will help you make a graceful exit.”

“You have my word as a gentleman, m’dear.” He tugs her hand gently to his lips. She runs the other through his hair, until some of the tension leaves him, and his breathing grows deep and even.

“I’ll arrange things with a couple of the others, who I know will be present tomorrow night. We’ll take care of him.” Andrew says, bowing out. 

Marguerite does her best, to banish her worries. Which is not to say she is free from trepidation, when they set out for the ball, but she is nothing if not a good actress. She performs her role well.

They will look beautiful together, that much is true. He wears a suit of pale blue silk, so richly embroidered, each lapel a flower garden. He drips with lace. The powder and the rouge hide any hint of his being hurt, explaining away his pallor and giving his cheeks and lips the glow of health. And she is done up to match, of course, in a gown that makes her feel invincible, in pearls and plumes, in powder and paint. They share this one thing, they both treat all this finery as their armor. They both know how to wear a mask. Had she but known from the start that he could understand her so deeply, that he could employ the same tricks… had she but known, always, the depths of him. But she knows now. She loves him so terribly for it.

The carriage ride is ridiculous-- to avoid having his back pressed to the seat as the road jostles them, Percy moves to kneel beside her skirts, his elbows on the seat, her steadying hand upon his arm. What a ridiculous picture they must make, but she helps him into a more dignified position once they come to a stop, and he retrieves the spread-out handkerchief he’d knelt upon and tucks it away, and when the footman opens the carriage door, they are respectability itself. 

Percy is everything he is expected to be throughout the ball, and so is she. As the evening latens, he tires, she worries, but no one suspects. He feigns being tipsy on too much champagne, when he needs lean on Andrew a little more heavily for a moment, and laughs at himself, and so everyone laughs with him, but he does not go home early. He rather deftly avoids any look from her with which she might attempt to communicate that he should. 

In the end, she takes matters into her own hands, and feigns exhaustion. Too much dancing and too much wine, and would he not be a dear? And ever the faithful husband, he agrees. 

Andrew has to slip out with them, to help him up into the carriage from below as Marguerite reaches to him from her seat-- he collapses into her lap, his apology weak.

“Shall I come along with you?” Andrew asks, his mouth a grim line, his eyes glittering with admirable emotion-- a better friend could not be asked for. Not only to Percy, but to her as well, even now to Armand. At times it feels as if she has been granted a second brother.

“No-- we had best not all disappear at once.” Percy says. “I shall manage. I have my most capable helpmeet, and I shall yet recover a little strength. If any of the others ask, you may tell them I left you in good spirits.”

“I may tell them you left me looking quite tired.”

“You may not.”

Andrew relaxes into a soft laugh at that, and he salutes. “Then I may tell them you shall be well, with rest. And I shall call upon you in the morning, if it please you.”

“Of course. You shall all come and call tomorrow, we might host you for luncheon.” Marguerite says, and Andrew nods to her before closing the carriage door.

This time, she holds her husband half in her lap, to save him the strain of bracing himself the whole ride. When they do arrive home, he carries himself to their bed with only a steadying hand from her.

Once there, he collapses.

Marguerite does not scream, despite the impulse. It would not do for someone to come running. She whispers a very heartfelt ‘merde’, and she sets to the task of putting her husband to bed, and changing his bandages. He has bled through them, another shirt which shall need careful attention… but nothing they cannot manage. She shall not let this be anything she cannot manage. 

Percy may be stubborn beyond reason, may have a stiff upper lip to beat most, may silently suffer through all manner of torment when principle demands, but _she is his match_.

When she slips into their bed at last, her hand finds his, their fingers twine together, and something like satisfaction flows into her, to be resting by his side again at last. 

It will not be the last time, she does not imagine… far from it, for he will not rest long until there is no one left in need of his rescuing. But at least now she knows, at least now when he is hurt, he will not hide from her until he heals, will not quit her bed in order to hide it from her. It will not be the last time, but every time he comes to her injured, it means he has come home. 

She can live with that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And a little of Percy's perspective...

_He is caught. Not quite to plan, but he has been caught before, and he has never been held. Andrew is in place, and that is what shall save him. Andrew, his jailer... and his key to freedom, if he sells it well._

_They can exchange no words. He is bound in chains, Andrew already in place in his guise... all he can do is hope, and trust, and endure._

_Each blow stings something fierce, but he knows the agony could be worse. The whip in any other man's hand would cut more deeply. He cannot be let off too light. He could endure the pain without crying out, he has endured as much before, but he fights that urge to preserve the stiff upper lip-- if he is too strong, too stoic, they shall take great delight in working to break him, and he must be capable, for their flight. This was not the plan, but his capture provides a beautiful distraction for the rest of the league. While he is captive, most of the guards gathered around to jeer and laugh at his beating, it gives the others free license to break in and out of other cells. Free enough, at least. They can put on a show._

_He allows himself to cry out, knows Andrew will know it is all for show-- he's going too easy to think he could have broken his reserve, though he will still feel it keenly. He has his own sensitivities, after all-- a brave and stalwart man as could be asked for, for ventures such as theirs, but if he were not so moved by sympathy, he would not be so bold in his work to rescue others. He shall have to assure him, when they are well clear of this place, that his dignity was more wounded by his own performance, than his body was wounded by Andrew's. He shall have to assure him..._

_It is agony, but Percy can endure agony, and has done before. And will do again. The pain tears through him, and_ heat _. The individual stinging lashes become one burn which covers his back. He sags in his bonds, the manacles on his wrists holding him up, the muscles of his shoulders pulling now as his legs go out from under him. He must reserve his strength. He will need it later. He will need it later... For now, he will fall apart, it will add to the show. Will let himself seem weak...  
_

_He feels weak. He is weak-- can a man not be allowed to be weak a while? When has he last let himself be so weak? It is not the whip which is to blame, it is the whole reign of terror, it is the pageant of human cruelty, it is the endless hunt. It is the game, and the hands he cannot win. No man can be asked to be as strong as he has been... no man could ever be._

_But the Pimpernel must be more than any one man could be asked to be, could be tasked with being. He is not a mere man... he is a symbol also. He is hope to those who wait in despair in the shadow of Madame Guillotine. He is a strong hand, a long reach, a swift stride. He is not his own. And he is not allowed human weakness._

_Percy is likewise not his own. The Pimpernel may belong to many-- Percy Blakeney belongs body and soul to Marguerite, his Marguerite. And she is waiting for a husband who has promised to be at her side shortly. He cannot disappoint her, it would be unthinkable. No, he shall soon be at her side and she shall be cool water for the fire that consumes him now. She shall look up at him, in that sweetest adoration... she shall take his arm, and speak comforting words. She shall kiss him, gentle as the rain which kisses each flower that blooms in the spring. She is waiting, and he could no sooner disappoint her than sprout wings and fly._

_If there are wings in him which could not sprout alone, he half feels as if his flesh may be torn away to free them... but it is bearable. All things are bearable, which one survives, even those which one imagined could not be borne. And he knows that he can bear this. He can even bear the humiliation of appearing to break before these men. They may realize when they find him gone, that they'd been had. Whether or not they consider his cries an act matters very little-- it matters very little now how much is truly an act. It only matters that he survive, which he cannot do unbeaten. He can but pray that Andrew remains strong in his conviction and his faith, that he does not let up before the enemy is satisfied. But he can only break so much, as studied in stoicism as he is, as often as silence has been a matter of life and death. He does not expect they will be so easily satisfied._

When Percy wakes, he half expects to find himself in chains in France, in that cell. He can feel the sweat thick upon his skin. But he is in his bed, pillows and mattress soft beneath him, covers tented carefully above him to keep his back untouched.

The agony comes and goes in waves-- the waves feel stronger now. But presently the covers are drawn away, and the sweat upon his skin can cool. The salt of it stings where his skin has been split, but he supposes he shall endure that also.

"Oh, mon amour..." Marguerite's voice, sleep-soft... He focuses on her face as best he can in the darkness, her wide eyes catch the barest moonlight, reflective and bright. "Mon mari, qu'est-ce que c'est? Est-ce que tu souffres?"

"Oh... only a little." He tries to smile, though perhaps in the dark, with the moon coming in behind him, it matters little. Still, she would hear it in his voice if he could not smile for her.

"Badly enough to wake you." She kisses his shoulder. He would endure worse for that kiss. With a sigh, he lifts his hand to her soft cheek.

"It shall pass, m'dear. The worst always passes soon enough."

She lights a candle, and gets the basin, dips a corner of the linen into the cool water. She wipes away the sweat where he is unbandaged, and then sets to changing the dressings themselves. It does not help his pain to have his back touched, but it will help his healing, to clean away the sweat, and anything else from around the worst of it... And she sings to him as she works, soothing. That magnificent voice turned to a lullaby rather than to operatic heights, still clear as a bell, still as acrobatic as a bird's... she is a balm. She is an angel. She is everything he might once have dreamed and more, after all that they have endured together. After old fears and suspicions, since put to bed.

Would that he could be put to bed more comfortably... but he cannot complain about his nurse. He does his best to keep his body from shaking, when the pain spikes-- it is difficult, in the middle of the night, when he is weary... not like maintaining his cool facade whilst fully awake. He could trust her with his weaknesses were it not such old habit to disguise them, but he would not for the world worry her when he knows he shall heal well enough, have her fret or sit up at night thinking of his pain...

"That shall help." She sighs at last. "And some rest, yet."

"You are a great help. Indeed, you have done me a world of good lighting that candle."

"All I have done for you, and you thank me for lighting a candle!" She laughs, and pushes a lock of hair from his brow, and dabs at the sweat there also.

"I thank you most ardently for lighting that candle, which allows me to gaze upon your white shoulder, and your hair which tumbles over it like a river of flame, and the dearest furrow of your brow-- which does suggest to me that you love me, for you are troubled by my pain. I thank you with every inch of me for appearing to me by candlelight now, for no balm is so potent a cure for my pain as the sight of you. Not for your beauty, mind you. Any man might be moved by your beauty, which it is widely known is the most full and striking-- it is widely known that you might have been born to play Helen of Troy so convincingly that an army might be raised within the audience, and often said that you are so stunning that poets and painters alike weep with frustration at their feeble attempts at capturing you--"

"If you can speak like that, I suppose I cannot fear you are in too much pain." She says, and she rolls her eyes at him, but there is a glow to her, and she taps one fingertip to his lips. "I am yours, such flattery is hardly necessary."

"You interrupt me, dear lady! You interrupt me. Where was I?"

"Poets and painters alike were weeping." She says, and rolls her eyes once more.

"Ah, but it is not your beauty which so moves me to gratitude, for that poor little candle, which slowly gives its life for my pleasure. It is that little frown which has furrowed your brow. It is the sign of a devoted wife who shares her husband's pain. But you must not take pains upon yourself. It was only a fleeting shade which woke me, an ill dream after a long day. And now, tended to so well, I shall have no trouble sleeping. Truly. Already my pains are less. I heal."

She gives him a doubtful look, and she kisses his cheek. "You hurt."

"That, too. But not so terribly. Blow that beloved candle out, my love. Join me in a sweeter dream."

She does, and settles against her own pillow, the bed shifting. He waits until she stills there, before allowing himself the weakness, giving into the full-body shudder.

"I knew it." Marguerite whispers. She brings his hand to her lips, kisses the heel of it and holds it to her cheek. He reaches past to stroke her hair, a pleasant distraction from the pain, if not one so fully encompassing as to block it from his awareness.

"Forgive me, Margot. But there really is no sense in your sitting up with worry. There is little to be done for it, but time and rest."

"If only my husband knew how to rest."

"I'll rest." He promises. "With you."

She guides his hand back to her lips, another gentle kiss. Guides him to feel the beating of her heart a moment and then back up to her cheek. In the dark, he focuses upon the warmth and softness of her, of whatever part of her he feels. Her own small hands holding his, the silk of her hair, the flat of her stomach and the slow even breathing, the curve of her waist where he might hold her... She does not guide him towards amorous purpose, only gentle distraction, only the comfort of her presence-- he's in poor shape for any more, much as he might desire it. A part of him desires her even after the night he's had, but he is content to let desire slumber, tonight. Comfort is enough-- comfort is more than enough. She is warm and she is soft, and while he would not trouble her with his pain, she has within her the steel to face it with him. She has undergone pain, too, when needs must. She would again, he knows. And he would do anything to spare her doing so.

"What is so funny?" She asks, tracing soft whorls across the back of his hand and his wrist.

His hands look soft and delicate beside any pair but her own, dainty as she is. He still feels them capable despite his appearances-- why should they be so different from the rest of him?-- but he may as well admit he likes the way her hand looks within his grasp, and he likes the way his hand looks clasped between hers. There is something beautiful in the way they look together, a deceptive gentility and a certain grace. Even when the room is so dark as to make examining the fit of them impossible, he can picture them well.

"I would rather laugh, love, than weep. I am too happy for weeping. If I were whipped again and if I had hot pokers held to my feet and if I were beaten within an inch of my life, I should laugh before I wept. For you love me. Admirable as you are, you love me, and when I remember that fact, I am well. I am well indeed."

"Good." She shifts his hand over, not far, and laces their fingers together. He focuses on that hand, and the soft rustle of her nightgown, and all the bountiful warmth and softness she brings to his life. Her breathing in the dark. Her nearness. He imagines even at a distance the perfume of her hair. He recalls the brush of her lips to his cheek. "Be well."

Well will take time-- it will take time before he can return to the fray. He will feel the pull of each place he was lashed-- though it could not be helped-- for some time. And perhaps it will be some time after, before the scars heal. They may pull at times or ache him even healed... and he shall bear it. If they ache him even healed, he shall hide it from Andrew-- but he shall try to remember that he might trust his wife with a little more truth. He would not worry her for the world, but neither can he lie to her when she knows him so well, and loves him with such iron strength.

For tonight... her nearness is balm enough. He knows he will not find sleep soon, the pain is still too much for that, yet not so much that the exhaustion of it can take him. There's something to be grateful for-- he would rather spend a sleepless hour or so than let pain rob him of his senses and plunge him into unrestful slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, a very brief bit of Andrew.

Sir Percy looks more himself at luncheon the next day, though he leans forward carefully, leans against a walking stick to avoid the faux pas of resting against the table-- and to avoid the pain of leaning back in his seat, or holding himself upright by muscle alone, taxing as that would be.

He'd had no choice, of course, for it would have been worse had he refused. He remembers well the look which his friend had fixed upon him. It may have been mistaken by the real guards surrounding them, for defiance or fury. Andrew had known it at once as determination, an unspoken order to do as he must.

The whole caper had been unbearable after that point. He recalls all too well stripping away the tattered and bloodied shirt, and seeing the mess he had made of Percy's back, he and Armand St. Just stripping and redressing their leader, Simon seeing to their charges and Tony keeping watch for the enemy. They had also their men arranging transportation every step of the way back to the ship, every switch to be made set to run smooth...

He is indebted to Armand, he thinks, for his ability to play out the rest of the whole affair, for it had been Armand who had held fast to his hand as they sped onward, who had fixed him with a steady gaze and thanked him-- 'for doing what I could not', he had said, for he might have played the part of the jailer if Andrew had not done. It had been Andrew to insist upon taking the role from him, in fact, concerned that he might be recognized by someone, be it as a former friend or a former prisoner. It wasn't the risk of recognition which he'd referred to, though, but the job of cracking that whip. They are all brothers in arms, in the League, but Armand is Percy's brother-in-law, he could hardly be asked to do such a fearful and horrible thing. And it had been gratifying, to be treated as a brother by him also-- true, Andrew knows he has Percy's confidence, his utmost trust, that that trust had been integral in what they'd endured together, but... well, but he imagines it is always gratifying to be treated as a brother by your comrade in such an undertaking as theirs. It must always be gratifying, to have done something you are sick with to your very soul, and to have another man see you in your darkest hour and call you brother, if not in words. In the clasp of his hand and the knowing look in his eye, in his careful nod. In his gratitude. In that depth of friendship beyond friendship, that brotherhood, which can only exist between men who have done the things that they have done.

He had needed that, then. To feel enfolded in their ranks and to feel appreciated, needed, when he had hated every second of the pain he'd caused, damage he'd done.

There had needed to be blood, he had known, but he had done his best to make a good show of it with as little of that as possible.

Percy's spirits are high and his wit quick, but he tires, the strain shows. When the meal has finished, he beckons Andrew to his side. Lets his wife know he shall be happy to see her in not too long a moment, but that he and Andrew might talk a while in private first.

"We'll walk around the garden once." Armand suggests, offering his sister his arm, as Andrew moves to support Percy.

"That will give ample time, I'm sure." Percy nods. He reaches out, kisses her hand before she leaves with her brother, and they move up to the couple's bedroom.

"You still fret over absolution?" Percy says, as Andrew helps him to settle.

"I still struggle with my guilt."

"La! Guilt, he says! I'll tell you again, my friend, I'd have been in a stickier situation without you. Can I ease that guilt?"

Andrew shakes his head. "Not until the last scar has faded."

"Dear me, well how shall I know when that is? You had best be eased now and save us the time and the trouble."

"You had best accept that it is hardly so simple a thing. Does it hurt terribly?"

"The pain ebbs and flows. It ebbed a while back, and... then I pushed myself a moment too long, and it flowed once more. But now I am in bed it shall soon ebb once more. Will you be eased then?"

"My guilt will ebb and flow, then." Andrew says, and squeezes Percy's hand once. "If you had been forced to whip your dearest friend, would your guilt vanish so rapidly?"

Percy's smile may be weary and pained, but it sparkles with all the generous and playful warmth of his spirit, all that in him which makes his men so loyal to his call, which inspires that not only that loyalty, but also their brotherhood amongst each other, for they all know what it is to be prepared to follow him into hell, and they all recognize in each other some... some fraction of that spirit. That thing he has which binds them.

"My dear boy. I would do whatever I had to, were our positions reversed. But I should be _wracked_ with guilt to hurt you. Of course I should be. That does not mean I would be right to be-- only that I would be. Give me your hand again. If I can employ you in useful service... can you vow to me that you will not let your guilt rule you?"

He supposes he can make that vow... after all, Percy has not asked him to banish the feeling entirely-- only to be master of himself despite it. He clasps Percy's hand.

"I swear it. If the service be useful enough."

"Then help me with these demmed bandages before I ruin another shirt bleeding through them." He tuts, as if it is nothing at all. "You'll see it's not so bad-- or if it looks bad, mind that it is not so bad as it seems."

It certainly seems bad enough to Andrew-- each welt is an angry red, thick and raised. The gashes are healing, but not quickly enough, and Percy bites back more than a hiss of pain when the bandages stick to half-dry blood and an open wound. He hears the sound of the whip in his ear when he looks at the pattern he's laid. And yet... Percy had not been wrong about one thing-- to be able to help care for his friend now, the guilt grows easier to bear. Present-- it shall be present a long time yet-- but it ebbs and flows. He can master it, and himself.


End file.
